Rum-Spiked Tea
by Dawn96
Summary: Only America would come knocking on his door through a bloody storm with a bag of McDonalds before COMPLETELY mistaking him as some random punk… come on, did the piercings really make him look THAT different?


**Rum-Spiked Tea**

* * *

He lounged on the sofa, the remote dangling uselessly between his fingers before he threw it down nonchalantly. He picked up his cup of tea from where it rested on the saucer and took a sip-

A small frown formed between his eyebrows and he leant forward. He lifted the bottle of chilled rum and poured some into his cup. Now _this_ was tea, he smirked as he took in the hardened scent wafting into his nose.

Having a full day off did have its privileges, England smiled to himself. It was pouring buckets outside- the rain pelted against his windows like rocks and the phone line had been cut, isolating him from the rest of the world. It reminded him of how sweet that period of isolation had been back before the 20's- so sweet it was dubbed splendid for decades. With no France to bother him, no America to laugh his ear off, no Spain to glower at… life was looking perfect today, wasn't it?

Since no one would come knocking at his door- the weather could not be overpowered- he fit in his piercings to make sure they weren't clogged and wore the baggiest sweatpants he could find along with his largest tank top that sagged well below his chest. He almost couldn't remember the fine scratches across his skin from years of fighting and conquering, or the old inked tattoo running down his side… but looking at all those years while sitting in the living room, completely at leisure, was something he really needed.

A cigarette would make things perfect though…

He sucked in the tobacco, feeling it dribble down his throat and fill his lungs. Sometimes he wondered at who he actually was… half the time a gentlemen, in pressed suits and well-mannered phrases, and half the time he wanted to just run out like a madman cussing till the day was done. Was it society or was it the expectancy of others that made him feel as if he was shelled in a portrait of their desire?

A pounding knock beat against the door and his tea almost sloshed down his front.

Who the hell would be stupid enough to go through the bloody gale?

"Dude! Crazy weather you got there- man I was almost blown away! Don't worry though, the hero doesn't mind a bit of water! It makes me feel like some shampoo ad model or something like that!"

America stood, unabashed as buckets of rainwater pounded against him from the skies, his hair all over his eyes from the wind and his clothes soaked to the bone. One hand contributed to his usual hero pose and the other was coiled around a bag of McDonalds that was literally pouring water like a faucet. All that England could do… was gawk.

America blinked, taking in the punkish man standing in front of him.

"Uh… sorry dude," America scratched the back of his neck awkwardly (did the bloody idiot not notice the _effing STORM_ around him?!), "I thought you were my bro's house and… uh…"

Something in England clicked the moment the American said 'bro'. Something in him warmed up that no cup of alcoholic tea could ever induce. With a small smirk creeping up his lips, he thought he'd have a little amusement by letting the oblivious American walk inside.

"How about you come in until the rain dies out?" England widened his door.

"Are you sure you aren't the British dude I'm looking for?" America cocked a brow as he scrutinized, "'cuz you sound an awful lot-"

"Just get the hell inside!" England seethed.

America jumped in, water pouring off him and forming a little pond where he stood. England glared at the mess desecrating his house before crossing his arms.

"Stay here, I'll get you something to wear lest you drench my whole house."

"Cool…"

He got back with a large jacket, some sweatpants and a towel and he threw America's wet clothes in the laundry as he changed. Did he really look that different, thought England as he observed his face in the nearby mirror by the hall. Did he really _not_ look the same? The lip-ring was cold to his tongue as he gently pushed it and his studded eyebrow still looked as thick as it always did. He had gone a bit overboard with his right ear- he loved piercing needles into his cartilage while his homeland was bombed during the great wars since he couldn't differentiate the pain inflicted from himself or the pain of his people dying- yet his left ear had fewer studs in comparison…

It wasn't like he tattooed half his face to the point he wasn't recognizable.

"Hey dude, thanks for the clothes. I was so sure this guy I was looking for lived here- I visit him like all the time- but… I guess I took a wrong turn somewhere."

"Mistakes happen," shrugged England, feigning casual indifference as he leaned against the wall, watching the American fidget on the spot. God, he just wanted to pull that sleeve back on the boy's shoulder and wrap him around with a warm blanket. "Living room's in here, I've got some tea."

"I even got him the latest McWhopper-Flabby-Royale from McD's…" sniffed America as he tearfully gazed at the soaked bag of McDonalds. "And those awesome curly fries that I know he likes…"

Since when did he like curly fries? Blinked England.

"Uh… yeah… It's the thought that counts though, isn't it?" he cleared his throat, "get inside?"

"Yeah," America sadly threw the wet bag into the trashcan- England felt shudders run up his spine from the disgusting _splosh-sqeallt_ sounds the bag made- and followed the Englishman into the living room.

America was rubbing his sopping wet hair with the towel, peaking under his bangs at the television which showed some random British show… wait a second. He straightened up. He knew that theme song…

"Hey, british dude?" America called.

England, who was pouring a cup of warm tea by the pantry looked up, finding the American pointing at the screen as if it was a world-wide revelation.

"Yes?"

"Is this EastEnders?"

England felt his brows rise in spite of himself.

"You know EastEnders?"

"Well yeah! My bro totally loves this show!" laughed America leaning back on the couch and crossing his legs with ease, "it's a lame-ass show, I gotta give you that, but whenever I walk in on him he's always whining on some Cathy or Watts or what-their-faces… ahh, watching this makes me feel he's with me," he said with a watery smile.

"Uh… you're talking like I'm- I mean, he's dead," England blanched.

"Yeah well… I kinda feel a bit… guilty, you know?"

"Guilty?" England placed the cup in front of America and picked his own bottle of rum from where he placed it. "Insulted his cooking perhaps?" sniffed England.

"His cooking sucks, the dude has to get over it," America rolled his eyes. "But… we're kinda having a bit of a fallout, y'know?"

"A fallout?"

England wracked his brains for the last time he had seen America. It was in the meeting they had two days ago in London- which was more of a nation-wide brawl than a meeting- and America had thrown this huge presentation on how to fix the ozone layer with a load of impressive physical equations and theories before Norway bluntly pointed out that they were talking about the oil industry instead of the atmosphere. Then there was that flashmob and firecracker explosions- courtesy of Australia and Hong Kong (those kids were giving him a bad image as a caretaker)- before Austria and Hungary had full-blown, vocal marital argument and they had to be pulled into separate rooms by Spain and Poland respectively. They tried to continue with the meeting before Prussia concocted a whole plan on redrawing Europe and including himself in it as the Kingdom of Awesome… the weird thing was that some actually _agreed_ to the whole idea before Switzerland controlled everyone with his pistol.

All the usual, anyway.

But a fallout?

"What kind of fallout?"

"Hm?" America seemed to have spaced out as England tried to recollect all that ruckus of a memory in his head. "Well… you wouldn't understand, I mean… you got brothers?"

England nodded hesitantly. The mere mention of his brother made a small, sour knot knit in his stomach that only the robust smoke of a cigarette could ease. He picked at sticks on the table and lit it by his mouth. He was really taking it easy, wasn't he, though England as he sucked in a puff of tobacco, its taste painfully reminding him of a certain Scotsman. As he took in grateful breaths of vile smoke, he thanked the heavens for the obliviousness the American possessed, or else he'd rather be caught dead giving his colonies- former or not- a bad example.

"I've got three," he continued, "and a sister."

"Oh…" America cast his eyes to the ground. "Well… usually I don't think about this until way after but… I don't know if the dude really… you know…"

England leant forward, as if he could get a better grasp at what the man was saying. The last time he saw America so small and so unsure was when he had broken all the china in the country house they used to live in back when he was a colony.

"Sometimes I feel really…" America fidgeted with the hem of the jacket before sighing and staring at the screen with unfocused eyes. "I feel we don't get along and he…" America dejectedly slumped down in defeat, "he doesn't stand me."

England felt something grate in the back of his throat and he used every fibre in his body to reign himself down and stop himself from pulling the boy- no, he was a grown _man_- into a big hug, ruffle his hair and tell him that he'll be there no matter what, and that he promised they'd go catch all the fireflies together and that he wouldn't stay far from home for very long times and-

"Maybe you misunderstood what he meant," England said thickly. "Or what he's saying… or…"

America looked up, his flushed face making him look younger than he actually was.

"Brother's, no matter what happens, will always be brothers," a small, sad smile on his lips. "So… all that flustered expressions, those promised curses and those small arguments that sometimes escalate and go far out of hand- think none of them."

All the snapping, all those jeers, all those schemes to see him fall… he never really put his heart to it, it was just a way of expressing himself in the surroundings of a chaotic mess of politics and a time of catastrophic relations. He may be carved of water and stone as nations, but more than half of his entity was human… something he had to take into account since he was the older brother, no matter what.

America observed him for quite some time before a smile- a true smile- cracked on his face. To England, it felt like a little sunshine through the clouds. "Are you called Phil, by any chance?

"Huh?"

"You know, like Doctor Phil? Are you?"

"Uh… no," he felt his smile droop back down to his usual scowl. And America, he concluded as he sucked in his tobacco, no matter what would always be an idiot.

"You're kinda like Old Eyebrows, you know?" America beamed. "If you just took out all those metal bits in your face and- holy shit! That's a damn cool tattoo! Can I see-"

"Hey-"

"Oh man, this is sweet!" America pushed him over until his fingers were tracing his shoulder blade with uncontained glee. "Man I always wanted a tattoo! God, I so_ want_ a tattoo but stupid Arthur wouldn't let me- dude, where did you get this? I so want one! It looks _vintage_. I'm sooo getting one-"

"You'll do no such thing!" he yelled in spite of himself.

But America didn't seem to notice as he kept on fantasizing on the tattoo he wanted to get, "-like a totally huge one that covers all of my back and those small writings that dudes put on their hipbones cuz it apparently looks hot and sexy and stuff-"

"How the hell do you know this stuff? Did that stupid frog- I mean- Uhh… t-those went o-out of style ages ago," he reigned himself to a cool, indifferent composure as he stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray before crossing his legs. "Plus, y-you're much too young to have any girlfriend or anyone to see your h-hipbones, so, don't bother really-"

"I am not!" America insisted, "dude, I've already dated like fifty girls."

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah!" America beamed smugly, "one from each state back home."

"Since when?!"

"Jealous?" America smirked before taking in the fuming face of the Englishman he barely knew. "Wait… you aren't actually jealous are you? Uh… I'm straight dude. You seem like a nice guy, but, I'm-"

England wanted to facepalm himself so hard his brains would splatter against the back of his skull. He stifled a very annoyed groan, trying to shut out the American's rambling on how he was a male and him dating fifty girls made him a male and being a male made him like McDonalds-

"What are you talking about?"

"-I'm just saying, even though Burger King does keep boasting that it's got the most tender chicken, I think Hardeez has this really unique taste to it- hey, dude? Where are you going?"

* * *

His brain was getting worn out from the random shifts in topic and he pressed his forehead against the windowpane that was shaken by the ceaseless rain. The quiet dimness of his room made him think- actually _think-_ for once in this whole evening. He took a glance in the mirror, taking in his piercings, his tattoos and his loose clothes that were who he was yet not him at all.

This- _this_ was _him_. He though as he ran a hand over his reflection. He raged through the seas those days, fearless and reckless and _free_.

But long gone were the days he could sail on uncontrollable waters that were _his_ and _his only_… long gone were the days he'd challenge and get caught in the blood-pumping adrenaline of clashing swords, spilt blood and battle screams that made victory all the more glorious. But remembering those words the American had said… his temper had been bubbling a bit more than usual and perhaps he was a bit too bitingly acidic with his response these days. He snapped a bit too much and this annoying irritancy that scratched under his skin was with him for too long.

Maybe it was his conflict of _who he was_ and _what he wanted to be_ that made him so touchy and snappy. Not him as a nation- but him as _himself_. That human side that constantly tugged at his mind and made him _feel_- made him love and hate and care and cry…

He pulled out the drawer.

His eyebrow was stinging and he needed that disinfectant, he thought.

He took out the cotton balls and the small tube before his hand brushed on some papers and notes. They were an assortment of different letters and photos, thrown haphazardly in the first drawer simply because he liked to keep it there.

There were those pictures Australia sent him of the boy himself with a kangaroo, a wombat and his pet koala (that he fed under the table one too many times back when he lived here), there was a postcard from New Zealand telling him that the attached package was one of the finest wool of the season (something good had come out of that crazy sheep obsession), a letter from Hong Kong telling him of the latest economic theories and promising a visit by next month, an elegantly decorated tin that smelt so strongly of all those rare spices that India had sent him not too long ago…

He realized, at that small moment, what he was and what he could always live to be.

Sometimes it was fun to dwell in the past and live a life ever so carefree and ever so reckless… but it was best not to get carried away from one's true purpose. Because no matter what, he'll always be the older brother… always be responsible.

He came down to find America sprawled on the couch, snoring with his mouth widely open and his arms splayed around him, the cup of tea cold and untouched.

"Probably tired from all that wandering in the rain," he muttered as he picked the thickest blanket from the nearby chest of drawers and draped it across the younger man.

He ran his fingers through America's hair, the familiar strands' reminding him of days when a simple 'everything will be alright' was enough assurance and a trip to the riverside was the utmost fun. He leaned down and pressed his lips to the boy's forehead before clicking off the lamps and switching off the telly.

"Well, if you'd look at that," he murmured as he gazed out the windows, "the storm died down…"

* * *

He wore a neatly pressed shirt shrugged into the jacket of his suit, checking the time. He had enough time to take a nice walk to that small baker down the road before making his way to the grand hotel the meeting was at. However, before he even had the chance to sip his cup of tea, the doorbell rang.

America left the house at 5am when one of the American members of parliament came knocking at his door, looking for the lost nation. Apparently they thought he ran away and a whole search party- complete with helicopters, police cars and security officials- were stationed on red alert across the country. Too sleepy to register what was happening, England helped the younger nation into the official looking car and watched it speed down the empty, wet road.

He checked his reflection in the mirror.

His hair was ruffled as usual, but his face was well-washed and fresh, his eyes quite bright from a good sleep and all those piercings were taken off to give him a rather flawless complexion. With a satisfied gentlemanly smile, he made his way to the door.

"England!" America suddenly threw his arms around the surprised island nation, catching him well off guard. "Man, I had the craziest night ever looking for you! Your house just disappeared!"

"America?" England's voice was muffled against the nation's suit. "What-"

"I'll tell you all about it!" America grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the house, "come on! I found this super awesome little pastry shop that had the _cutest_ little bread-thingies ever! I totally wowed the lady with my British accent- you should hear me!"

England tugged his arm out of the American's grip and stared at him, dumbfounded. This man was too fast-paced for him.

"Look here you bloody-" he snapped before his jaw locked. He sighed a let a small, tired smile climb up his lips, "let me get my keys first."

America drifted into the house, whistling a made-up tune, taking in the surroundings of England's house. Was it him, or did this place look familiar?

"Yo, England?"

"Yeah?" England called from somewhere in the kitchen.

Suddenly it dawned on him- it all came crashing on his head like a tone of obvious books- no way! No damn way! His eyes widened and his jaw slackened the moment he laid eyes on England who had his own smile, nodding at what it was America was thinking.

"Finally caught up, did you?"

"I just- I never- I didn't-" America couldn't believe it. Last night in that house with that person… all along it was… "Your house is exactly like my British friend Phil's house!"

Wall? Meet face.

"It's completely the same- from your wallpaper to your vase and to the carpet! Hey look- you've even got the same couch and blanket! Man, you should really meet Phil, he gave me ass-saving advice, dude, he was epic! He's like the coolest Brit I've ever met- even if he's gay-"

"I'm not gay!"

"But the dude had the awesomest tats ever- he told me he was gonna take me to the tattoo shop in some random alley so I can get me some!"

England watched helplessly as America laughed his head off, calling him to come outside so he can drive him for breakfast before the meetings starts. England pocketed his wallet and phone tiredly, already worn out from being in front of America for ten minutes, before locking his door and making his way to the car America brought along.

As he sat in the passenger seat, sure to put on his seat belt, and leaned back as America babbled on the most random of topics before a small thought flit into his mind.

America still regarded him as his brother, didn't he? After all, if calling him 'bro' and feeling slightly dejected on his sharp behavior for the past few days didn't prove it, then England didn't know what could.

"Take a left," he immediately cut through America's rant on polar bears and border crossings.

"Huh?"

"Take a left on the next corner."

"But the shop's-"

"There's a shop that sells the best homemade ice-cream in London right down that street," England pointed, his mouth twitching at America's expression when he said the magic word. "So take a left."

"B-but… it's eight am and you usually say…"

A kind, _genuine_ smile lit up the Englishman's face. "It never hurts to break a few rules."

* * *

**AN: I had no idea this fic was gonna end up this way o.O It just... happened. **

**There I was, innocently typing about old England lounging on a free day before Mr. America decided to bang his hands against the door and simply show up! Anyway, after trying to figure out what I wrote, I guess I wanted to show the conflicting sides of England- his delinquent side vs. his gentlemanly picture. So... what I mostly aimed for was showing that his brotherly/responsible/caring side _does_ overpower his one-reckless/careless/delinquent side and that he finally realizes that... Y'know, after raising so many colonies and so many young countries, he's bound to grow some soft-spot somewhere... **

**Enough of my rant XD I hope it was a good read!  
**


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